My Mom’s Name is Christine: a poem

Staff Writer
We brood on breaking news,
Work to that tick-tock routine,
‘til it all seems like the world is ready
To fall abyss, when a mist
Blows over our shoulders,
And our arms, melted malt and,
vanilla-boned, strike stiff like sweaty sticks
For popsicles by the sun,
And in this cancer tropic, melted malt,
Vanilla-boned, quiet water quickens,
Replying to rampant people,
Bashing and bathing in “I believe,”
When suddenly, a machine is bred and Wall Street roars,
Knocking on doors of speakeasies,
Where a Jaybird picks upon a daisy and
I, I pick up that daisy, from my old field and
Eye, eyes speculate upon its white ring,
Leaching from its bronzed iris center,
The center of our mother’s eye,
And the origin of our mist